


we're biting our nails, you're biting my lip

by strong



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, Painter Harry, Pining, Writer Louis, lots of space references, ziam to make the story flow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-20 19:52:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3662859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strong/pseuds/strong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>harry is a painter and louis is his muse</p>
            </blockquote>





	we're biting our nails, you're biting my lip

**Author's Note:**

> this was a zouis fic until this past week happened and i couldn't get myself to write more without wanting to curl into a ball and cry. so while reading, note that i had to alter a lot to make this larry. if something looks ridiculous just tell me.
> 
> also thanks to el for editing this little thing. it means a ton. :)

 

 

_would a diamond encrusted crown create a pleasant contrast with the dazzling blue and black bruises and ruby scars that coat my skin?_

 

_*•*•*_

 

Louis carefully shuts his bulging, old journal and sets it down on his lap. "I'm a prince, Harry. Not a king— that's far too much responsibility,” Louis muses. “A prince, you see, is a title I can manage to uphold with my perpetual laziness and conniving ways. And with that, I'm also the most desirable royal bastard of them all."

 

"That you are. Smoothly cut from white marble, polished with a mixture of liquid silver and strong tequila," Harry retorts gruffly with a short roll of his evergreen eyes which is as much emotion as he's willing to show while he's painting.

 

There's a sort of power and vanity and maybe even pride that comes with being an artist's model, especially being one for Harry who radiates a burning passion with every stroke he makes on the canvas. Having your features deemed beautiful by someone else, enough so for them to bother wasting hours of their time capturing every detail from a hooded eyelid to a freckle in the center of your cheek— that's raw empowerment. Louis, for one, also takes great responsibility in being hand picked for such a job. He's aware of how choosey Harry can be about what he paints or draws, the methodical ways in which he picks apart every seemingly flawless creature or colorful object until when you look again, you see nothing more than a dull, lifeless mass.

 

"Sanded and polished to a gleaming perfection, I am. Reflecting light to the point where I'm painful to look at," Louis says quietly, trying to keep still in his place. Not that he wants to move anyways. Five a.m. is a time that he gets up at solely for Harry and only when the morning sky looks particularly breathtaking because Louis' hair doesn't cooperate until half past nine, the bags under his eyes don't fade til ten, and his languid movements and speech last for indefinite amounts of time depending on how hard he hit the night before. 

 

"You should write about yourself sometimes," Harry tells Louis thoughtfully since he seems to be in a rare talkative mood. Normally in the mornings he communicates with nothing more than prudent one-word quotes or deep hums. "You've got good ideas that you don't give yourself enough credit for. Vanity is the key to true inspiration or something'. That's probably a quote from somewhere."

 

"It's not," Louis assures him, letting his eyes close for a second. The purple and blue speckled fuzziness gives him momentarily relief to make up for the sleep he's losing right now.

 

"You would know that for set fact, wouldn't you?" Harry deadpans, staring past Louis to the rising sun.

 

"Not my fault I like words," Louis shrugs minimally. "They're everywhere. I like collecting them and remembering who said them and for what reason. And no one has said that quote before."

 

"Writers." The natural state of Harry returns once again. 

 

Sitting out on the balcony causes light waves of wind to flush against Louis' face. His body is covered in long layers, as is Harry's, but the chill of the early springtime air still bites all the same. Bumps rise on the expanses of Louis' skin and a quick shiver runs through him along with a thought in his head that if the moon could provide heat just as well as the Sun, it could solve many of his other worldly problems.

 

The smell of drying paint floats towards Louis and he scrunches his nose as if he doesn't live with the scent all day every day. It's better than a flat that smells like smoke, he reasons, but there are times where it smells like stale weed so. It's a difficult balance. 

 

Louis busies himself with watching Harry's hair slowly fall from the bun it's thrown into. As each minute passes and the sun eventually takes it's rightful place in the sky behind a thin set of clouds, Louis examines the younger man across from him (if they can be considered men at the ripe ages of 21 and 23). Every time another piece of hair frees itself, Harry bites his lip, and every time he does that his eyebrows twitch downwards. It's enrapturing in the simplest yet most divine way.

 

When he finishes the painting, Harry hides it from view of Louis until they're back inside, walking away while Louis drops like dead weight onto the couch. With his legs spread, head against the armrest, and eyes closed, he listens to the echoing sounds of Harry moving his work to a suitable place to dry. Then a minute later, the distant sounds come closer and a long body slumps down and nudges itself in between Louis' legs before curling into the curve of Louis' stomach.

 

"I am not a chair," Louis states blandly while nudging Harry's calves with his feet.

 

"But you're comfortable," Harry retorts, seeming content in his position if the loud sigh is anything to go by. He rests his head back onto Louis' chest like a cat looking for a heartbeat.

 

"Fair enough," Louis replies with the smallest smile. Secretly, he deeply enjoys cuddling. Especially with Harry because, like he said, Harry is practically a cat. He lays against Louis and acts like a giant patch of warmth, a skinny blanket that sometimes leaves traces of paint on Louis' clothes. 

 

"The scar on your cheek is bright today," Harry comments. He's got an odd infatuation with the mark, always making sure to include it in his drawings even when minor details aren't necessary. 

 

"Glad to hear you've greatly noticed the imperfection on my cheek." Louis doesn't like the scar. One small biking accident when he's ten and he gets a memory to last forever right where the sun hits the hardest.

 

"Imperfections are nice, Lou. You need to learn to embrace it. It makes you look nice and somewhat tough which I know you like to strive for."

 

"I don't strive for toughness, I strive for power and dominance," Louis corrects briskly. "They're different, I assure you."

 

Harry doesn't reply so Louis figures he's won this debate. It'll recur in a few days, Harry noting something about it just like today, leaving Louis swimming in insecurity. Harry doesn't mean to cause trouble of course. He just wants Louis to embrace his beauty, as he commonly puts it, but Louis is stubborn. Stubborn, independent, unbelieving. A set of adjective to oppose the ones used to describe Harry.

 

"Where do you get all your marks anyways? I saw a new cut on your elbow too." Harry taps a finger against Louis shin.

 

"Childhood incidents, careless shaving, sometimes too sharp of a turn while walking through a doorway," Louis responds. "I'm accident prone. It's a travesty."

 

Harry huffs out a short laugh then turns his face so his cheek rests on Louis' stomach. "Don't worry, I'll protect you from the world and yourself."

 

And if Louis reflexively reaches out for the pen sitting on the coffee table and writes the words down on a bare spot of his arm, who would there be to claim witness?

 

*•*•*

 

_can you really protect me from the world and myself? i hope so. and i hope i can protect you too._

 

*•*•*

 

Nothing is better than days where neither Louis nor Harry have any obligations. If Louis doesn't feel like locking himself in a room and forcing himself to write something new to publish and Harry isn't scheduled to teach an art class, they get to enjoy lounging around and doing nothing with each other. The couch indents where they sit all day pressed side by side, watching old comedies and fighting over who's got the most of the blanket wrapped around them. (It's almost always Louis who loses that argument, but what can he do? He's cold blooded and simply can't have any limbs being exposed to the air. Obviously.)

 

The hours of the day waste away quickly. Before he knows it, Louis's fallen asleep at just past ten at night and he's waking up with a crick in his neck at some decent hour the next day. He looks around to see where Harry is and finds him curled up next to the couch on the dirty floor. 

 

"Harry," Louis whispers, nudging his shoulder a few times. "Harry, wake up."

 

"'Mmm-mmm," is the negative response Louis gets.

 

"Why're you on the floor?" 

 

"You kick," Harry says slowly in a deep, cracking voice. "Too lazy to go to m' bed."

 

Louis frowns and throws the rest of their original shared blanket on top of him. "Sorry."

 

One of Harry's shoulders moves just the slightest bit in the laziest shrug ever performed. Louis recognizes it as his apology being accepted though and runs a hand through Harry's hair before flipping back onto the couch, eyes set at the flat white ceiling above. He's cold now without the fluffy blanket to cover him but he knows Harry deserves the warmth more than him. Louis may have woken with a bad neck, but Harry's eventually going to be popping all of his limbs back into their proper places.

 

Today Louis is meeting with Zayn to come up with some new ideas for his next book. He's the reason Louis started writing, really. They've been friends since they were too young to know the difference between a verb and adjective, and over the years they've never separated. When you make it through the awkward teenage stage of discovering your sexuality and survive past the awkward months of being each other's first boyfriend, you can make it through anything. 

 

Even with a lack of romance, Louis has always been inspired by him though. In class when he was told to freestyle write, he'd always describe his adventures with Zayn in detail or sometimes even just Zayn himself. Zayn admitted to doing the same and so they clicked and decided to be a team, writing and building off each other and eventually popping champagne when either one of them got some short poems or a story published in the local paper.

 

Today Zayn's stories are on the shelves at large bookstores while Louis' freestyle-quote-type books are on sale in the back of Urban Outfitters shops. Still, they consider themselves as equal as anything. As long as both of them are being read and recommended by angsty teenagers and young adults worldwide, there isn't much to balance out.

 

After some time, Louis forces himself to climb off the couch — carefully avoiding stepping on Harry of course — and shower because he feels like it's been far too long since his last one. The steam and warm water that pelts against him wake him up the slightest bit more while simultaneously making him want to fall back asleep. When he steps out of the bathroom with a white towel loosely draped around his waist, Harry is standing there. Louis desperately tries not to look too much into the way Harry's eyes trace him up and down.

 

"Took you long enough," Harry says, pushing himself off the wall and moving languidly past Louis and through the doorway. 

 

"Sorry mate. I saved some hot water for you though," Louis supplies, starting down the hall towards his room.

 

"Much love!" Harry calls out and Louis says a quiet _yeah, yeah_ as the door slams shut behind him.

 

When he's stark and shuffling through drawers and his closet to find something suitable to wear, it almost slips his mind that this is Zayn. He could walk out the door and show up at Zayn's just like this and the only ones who would have a problem would be the unfortunate passersby on the street. 

 

In the end, some Adidas sweatpants and a football sweater are what he settles on. Comfortable, and not too warm since the temperature is finally rising. Perfect for a day of milking his brain of all of it's containments.

 

"I'm going to kill myself now," Louis calls with a fist pounding on the bathroom door. He can't be sure, but it sounds like Harry laughs. Of course he would.

 

The walk to Zayn's house isn't too treacherous, just a few blocks south past a few sketchy alleys.  With his journal clasped tight in one hand and a pair of headphones connected to the phone in his pocket, Louis makes quick work of getting there. People move out of his way when he shows no interest in moving from their path and while it probably upsets a majority of the population, Louis enjoys having such a power over a city that can eat people alive if they aren't careful.

 

When he arrives at the familiar red door, he yanks the earbuds from his ears, bends down and pulls the key from underneath the doormat. _'Wipe paws here'_ it says, the words surrounded by animal prints. Louis rolls his eyes but wipes his shoes off before unlocking the front door.

 

"Hello Hawkeye," he greets after returning the key to its hiding place. The second he steps foot into the home the small one-eyed kitten is attacking his feet, biting at his shoelaces vehemently.

 

She starts to try to climb his leg, meowing and nuzzling at his shin, and he debates for a moment whether he wants shredded pants or white fur all over his top. He settles for the latter.

 

With Hawkeye curled into his neck, Louis sets forth into the house to find where Zayn could be. The entire place smells as it usually does— like smoke and coffee and a dash of aftershave. It's always funny to him how Zayn's room in his family home smells exactly the same way as if he bottled up the scent and released it here to make him feel less homesick. 

 

"Zayn!" He calls out. The sound startles the kitten so Louis takes a moment to pet her and gently call her down until she's purring under his touch. 

 

"In the loft!" The echo of the voice hits Louis and he immediately sets foot into the den, then looks up at the railing where Liam, Zayn's on-and-off boyfriend of five months, is in a very indecent position. One foot is sitting on the top bar, displaying a great view of his thigh in a pair of tight, black workout pants.

 

"Morning yoga?" 

 

Liam drops his foot then leans forward on the railing, smiling down at Louis."It's cleansing for the soul and relaxing for the mind and body. You should try it some time."

 

"I only willingly wake up in the morning for Harry and only do anything but write if I'm being paid," Louis announces. "Yoga wouldn't fit well into my daily routine of sitting around doing nothing until my brain either wakes up or decides to shut down."

 

"But you see, yoga wouldn't just fit into your regular schedule like a wonky puzzle piece, it would mold your schedule into something _new_ ," Liam claims, sounding more ridiculously inspirational by the second.

 

Louis sits on the white couch, lowering Hawkeye onto his chest. He watches her settle herself down right where his heart beats against his ribs. "I don't like new things."

 

Footsteps pound down the staircase and a mumbled _"Obviously."_ reaches Louis' eardrums before Liam continues down the next flight and to the basement. Down there he's got his washer and dryer set up, so Louis assumes he's grabbing clothes to change into. It's now that Zayn decides to make his presence known as he appears from seemingly nowhere, sitting down on the couch so that his jean-clad thigh pressing against Louis' own.

 

"I thought you didn't like cats," Zayn hums. He reaches a hand out to pet the animal and Louis watches in amusement as the kitten is engulfed by Zayn's palm. 

 

"Not everyone has a Liam to force them to like felines, but I'll admit that I like cats if I like their owners," Louis shrugs.

 

Zayn grins lazily and bumps into Louis' shoulder lightly. "Nice to be reassured that you don't hate me. That would've been an awkward to drop on me after a friendship spanning fifteen years."

 

"Don't be fooled— I do still hate you sometimes." 

 

"Like when I ask if you've expelled your love for Harry to him yet?" Zayn drops it so casually that Louis' stomach nearly forgets to turn like someone's just placed it onto a merry go round.

 

It always seems that Zayn is more interested in Louis' love life than his own. Louis doesn't believe that the stop and go flow of Zayn and Liam's relationship is something to strive for and he hasn't pestered his friend at all about it, but all forbid the favors be returned and Louis be left alone to live out his love-sickness quietly. 

 

"Yes, instances of this sort are some of the times that I consider turning to an all around hatred of you," Louis sighs, closing his eyes. He focuses on the odd buzzing feeling in his chest due to the cat's purring. "So let's just write before you bring yourself closer to the edge of my feelings for you."

 

Zayn huffs but doesn't press on about the topic, much to Louis' delight. Of course, just because Zayn's mouth is shut doesn't mean that the crisis is completely averted. While Louis used to be inspired to write about Zayn and then eventually random interesting people once Zayn got boring, he's now taken to using Harry as a creative motivation. Every set of words he comes up with ends up being somehow traceable back to the artist, and Zayn catches on quickly. Really, he caught on the day that Louis wrote about Harry for the very first time. He's very observant when he wants to be.

 

They work in silence for a bit, Zayn scribbling what appear to be notes into his inked moleskin journal while Louis works on emptying his thoughts into his own smaller one. The kitten gets up at some point and Louis starts to miss the warm spot. The faint sound of the heating system kicking on creates a monotone background noise that helps him think clearer. Louis wonders if there's a reason why some sounds can be so soothing while others become incredibly irritating after just a minute or two.

 

"I was thinking about writing a book. Like, an actual novel this time," Zayn says suddenly, attracting Louis' attention. He loves how much Zayn talks around him. Normally he's quiet, the kind of guy who shrinks in on himself in front of people, but with Louis he feels safe to speak whatever’s on his mind. Louis prides himself in creating such a comfort zone for his friend.

 

Louis crosses his gaze to Zayn, raising his brows in pleasant surprise. "Really? After all the times you've whined about never wanting to commit to something so treacherous?"

 

Zayn laughs and his eyes sparkle with something beautiful before he casts them down and they're covered with thick lashes. "I just feel like it's now or never. I've got three short story books out there and I know people like to tear the stories out and clip them into their binders, but it'd be nice for someone to keep a whole book somewhere, you know? I want people to be captured and sucked in and not just for a fleeting moment, but for a longer length of time. I want them to live in a world I create and not just get glimpses through a window."

 

Louis isn't sure of what to reply. He settles for scratching his thigh and biting his lip, buying himself more time to think of a particularly motivational response.

 

"That sounds incredible, Z," he starts slowly. He shakes his head and smiles at his best friend who returns the sentiment. "It's fascinating how passionate you are about it. I say you should definitely go for it. Honestly, if I had the patience or ability to do something like that, I would, but maybe you can just do it for the both of us. As long as you let me be the first reader and editor of it as it's a work in progress, though."

 

Zayn is practically beaming at Louis now. His sharply cut, rough face looks near childish and he keeps fiddling with the end of his jumper anxiously. "Would helping me with a plot and characters be enough involvement for you?"

 

"I'll settle," Louis grins. 

 

He looks back down at what he's written so far and scratches a few things out. The sense of Zayn reading his words from beside him is prominent, making Louis start second guessing everything he's spilled onto the page. His hand goes to scratch out an embarrassingly lengthy sentence about the way Harry looked the previous morning, but Zayn's hand catches his own before he can do so.

 

"Is that about him?" Zayn asks, going for casual but using a tone too light that makes Louis frown. He hates being pitied or treated like he's in a fragile state when he isn't. Zayn 's meticulous when it comes to doing such a thing though.

 

"Yeah," Louis clips. 

 

"Don't do this, Lou, what you wrote is really nice," Zayn gently chastises. "I know you really like him already, and it's sad to see you only writing about it rather than-"

 

" _Stop_ ," Louis interrupts. It comes out harsh and he regrets it when he turns and sees Zayn biting down a frown. "Sorry, it's just that I don't like pity. I don't want you to be sad over the fact that I've got an unrequited love. My life isn't the fucking Notebook."

 

"I never said it was."

 

"I know." Louis bumps their knees together for good measure, feeling the knot in his chest loosen when Zayn's lips twitch up. "But I can't just tell Harry.. things. There's a difference between him using me as his muse and being romantically interested and I don't want to fuck it up. So instead I'll continue to secretly write about him everyday and I'd appreciate not having you criticize me for doing so."

 

The ending borderlines sarcasm, but there's still a hint of truth. He does want to be able to write about Harry to his heart's desire yet he's not too worried about Zayn getting onto him for doing so or pushing Louis to do more for the situation.

 

"You may have a great, creative, and wild mind, but you are a blind man, Louis Tomlinson," Zayn sighs. He fully leans into Louis now, using him as a pillow as he tucks his head sideways into the dip connecting Louis' neck and shoulder.

 

Silence falls between them. A comfortable one filled with the same distant humming from earlier and the frequently occurring rush of a car passing down the street. Zayn doesn't shift from his position and Louis makes no move to force him to do so. Instead he opens his journal back up, picks up the pen from below his thigh, and starts writing like he never even stopped.

 

Zayn's eyes follow the looping and scratching tip of the pen as it forms a messy middle of words. _There comes a time when a blind man takes your hand and says, "Can't you see?",_ Louis writes, explaining that Harry actually said that to him once, much to Zayn's amusement. He grabs Louis' hand and squeezes it, restating the quote in a dramatic manner. It leaves them both cackling into each other, heads pressed together and ribs starting to ache with the force of their ridiculous, joyous laughter. Nothing is even funny but just being in one another's company is enough to keep the happiness level high long after it should have died down.

 

Needless to say, not much work gets done. They spent a majority of the day mocking each other, coming up with the most 'interesting' characters for Zayn's novel, and having punching fights that always end with each of them having a truce and rubbing their biceps in pain. It's the kind of refreshing time that Louis never knows he needs, but is always thankful for when it's given to him. He'll always be thankful to have Zayn.

 

 

*•*•*

 

_watching th_ _e way you bite your lip, i wonder if that's how you would nibble on my own_

 

_*•*•*_

 

How Louis gets to the position he's in right now is complicated. Needless to say, an above average amount of alcohol was involved, a smidge of weed, and a burst of creativity at two in the morning (on Harry's part).

 

Louis is laying on the coffee table atop of some old couch cushions. His stomach is pressed into them, exposing his bare back down to the low line of his sweatpants. Harry sits on the back of his thighs. Luckily he doesn't weigh _too_ much so the complaints from Louis about his legs falling asleep are minimal.

 

For some reason at about one AM, Harry had the bright idea to paint. Figuring that he'd go off in his room and do with that idea what he will, Louis shrugged and pulled his head from where it rested in Harry's lap. It was only when Harry explained that they'd need to go to a corner shop and grab supplies that Louis caught on to the fact that it wouldn't just be a regular painting.

 

With two bags of various body paints and sponges in their hands, they walked tipsily back from the deserted store to the sanctuary of their flat. They stumbled along the streets holding hands and laughing at how the front's of cars look like human faces. When they arrived home, Harry immediately ordered Louis to lie down on the coffee table and, really, that was that.

 

Now here he lay, anxiously awaiting the first cold brush of paint to be spread on his back. Every time Harry shifts, Louis giggles and starts to squirm under the assumption that the paint is coming. So far it's just been a series of false alarms.

 

"Haaarrryyy, paint me like- like one of your French girls," Louis laughs half-heartedly. 

 

"It's sad that you lose all sense when you're high," Harry replies, popping the cap to one of the tubes. Louis can still hear the smirk in his voice.

 

Louis hums for a few seconds before speaking. "Don't forget the whisky. That's what really makes my head start falling apart. I can handle drugs, I can handle alcohol; both make me very creative and insightful. But together they write a different story. I can't remember any of what I just said to be honest. That's how bad it is."

 

"Should we stick to five note wine then?" Harry asks.

 

"No," Louis grins even though Harry can't see since his face is turned sideways on the pillow. "None of them mix well with weed. I'd rather get fucked up with the hard stuff."

 

"Whatever you say, Lou," Harry smiles subtly. 

 

Without warning, Harry drags a fine brush down the middle of Louis' back. He traces the faint line of Louis' spine and causes shivers to arise on his skin. Louis wants to laugh at first and exclaim that it tickles, but once Harry starts drawing it back up the humor dies on his tongue. It's replaced by what seems to be a hint of arousal which isn't favorable in such a position. So in a panic Louis' subconscious overrides his foggy brain and makes him arch his back quickly, knocking Harry's hand away before he gets an uncomfortable stiffy.

 

"Tickled," Louis says as means of explanation. Harry snorts in response.

 

Finally Harry dips his brush into one of the many globs of paint on the plate that's now resting on Louis' bum. He makes a note to not squirm as much now. Of course, it's hard to follow that order when the spike of cold suddenly meets his tan skin. His shoulders tense for a moment but once he gets used to the feeling, Louis sighs in content. 

 

He's got no clue as to what Harry is supposed to be painting on him. It's not like he'd care whether it’s  a giant penis or a blissful ocean scene anyways. All he cares about is that Harry finds him suitable enough to be a temporary canvas for whatever wild things he's envisioned in his intoxicated state. 

 

Louis still tries to decipher what the picture could be. He can't help natural curiosity. So far, from what he can feel by the brush strokes and movements of the paint, there are some circles involved. It feels like there's a series of them being formed individually down the route of his spine but he hasn't any idea of the reasoning. Whenever he tries to look at Harry's paintings in their beginning states Louis guesses them wrong a majority of the time, so he doubts he'd be any better at _feeling_ the picture. Especially being as out-of-it as he is right now.

 

The dabbing of a sponge and the smooth, slow strokes of a brush are more than enough to relax Louis completely. Any of the buzzing energy he had mere minutes ago is fading quickly into peaceful potential energy. As Harry makes himself comfortable on Louis' thighs, Louis finds himself losing more sense of reality. Time just seems to disappear, leaving him to only focus on the movements on his back and the smell of fresh paint floating in the space around him.

 

That may be why it doesn't seem like more than a minute later when Harry pats him gently on the hip and announces that he's done. He doesn't move from his spot, but he sets the plate down on the floor at least. Louis still can't see him, couldn't no matter which way he turned, so he talks to fill in the blank space.

 

"What did you paint?" Louis asks quietly, not wanting to break the soothing silence of the moment. 

 

"The solar system," Harry states simply. "All nine planets including Pluto."

 

Of course he would. Harry is like that, always making things that are larger than life and turning them into tangible pieces. Without looking Louis already knows that the art on his back is filled with more colors, life and wonder than the entire universe itself. 

 

"What about the sun?"

 

Harry takes longer than normal to reply. It's like he has to think about his response, which raises Louis' anxiety. "I didn't figure I needed it because I painted the planets on you and you already are the sun. A burning ball of heat, fierceness, and happiness that casts bright light over everything. I'm sure even your rays could reach the furthest planet."

 

Louis is left speechless to say the least. Literally speechless, dictionary defined incapable of speaking. It feels like the walls of the room are closing in and him and Harry are going to be crushed if he doesn't do something about it soon.

 

"Get off me real quick, H," Louis says. Now that his sense is so obviously back from it's temporary vacation due to the substances from earlier, he tries to avoid coming off as disgusted or annoyed.

 

Harry does as asked. He stands up while Louis carefully maneuvers himself into a sitting position on the table, desperately attempting to keep the paint on him intact. Harry then sits back down right in front of him and stares with an expression of intent.

 

"Do you know what you're saying?" Louis asks in a rush. His nerve endings are in a shock and his emotions are running in overdrive under the impression that something greater than life could come from these next few moments.

 

"Yes," Harry nods, licking his pink lips to give them a fresh glistening shine. 

 

"Do you know what you _mean_ by what you're saying?"

 

Harry blinks and scoots slightly closer. "Yes."

Louis can't do much but fall silent and try to calm his racing heart. Nothing prepares you for things like this. Nothing prepares you for when love finally goes from a hopeless seed to a budding sapling. 

 

"I know exactly what I mean," Harry drawls slowly in that deep, gruff voice that always leaves Louis in a daze. "The question is what do you _want_ my words to mean?"

 

That is a good question. A bright question indeed. It's an utter shame that Louis has no answer to it. 

 

He wants Harry's words to mean that Louis is the light of his life, the thing that makes him happiest. Louis wants Harry to mean that he's in love with Louis because of his ever-present abundance of light and ability to brighten any bad day with a soft smile or back rub. 

 

But, Louis also wants Harry's words to mean that Louis is a dazzling enigma, a radiant individual. He wants there to be no strings attached so that whatever they have now can't be jeopardized by the wrong amount of feelings in their mixing bowl.

 

He wants to be loved but he doesn't know in what way— platonically and safe, or romantically and catastrophic.

 

"I think," Louis starts. He bites his own tongue and messes with his wavy fringe for a few seconds, killing time with every adjustment to his appearance. "I think I want you to mean that with me as the sun and you as the moon, we could make a perfect catastrophe."

 

They lock eyes. Blue set on green, green boring into blue. Faintly Louis thinks he hears thunder from outside but it could easily be the storm brewing inside his own head now that Harry has moved just centimeters from him.

 

Harry holds a hand up and pushes the stray strands of hair up and out of Louis' face.  One hand stays settled at the base of Louis' skull while the other reaches up to rub at his stubbly jaw.

 

"So you're saying I just reflect your light, hm?" Harry asks teasingly. A dimple appears on his cheek, tying into the metaphor that he is the moon. A joyful moon with a crater at the corner of it's mouth. 

 

“Maybe,” Louis smiles. 

 

His body shifts forward on its own accord. The space between them gets smaller and smaller until there’s nothing more than an inch of heat between them. It’s not the literal heat that makes your cheeks blush during the summer, but a different kind, one that’s psychological and filled with desire. Maybe even temptation.

 

“Would you hate me if I kissed you right now?” Harry asks so softly.

 

Louis presses the tip of his nose against Harry’s. “I’d hate you more if you didn’t.”

 

In a millisecond their lips meet for the first time. It’s not quite as monumental as Louis always dreamed it would be but it’s satisfying all the same. The way Harry let’s out a moan that screams _‘finally’_ , how his full lips move against Louis’ thin ones with a force never exerted before. 

 

The hand behind Louis’ head pulls them closer together so there’s no room to pull back. Louis faintly thinks about how they’re having their first kiss at two in the morning on top of a surprisingly strong coffee table. The thoughts are quickly kicked aside by more feverish ones though. They flood through his mind like a raging river; Harry’s wet lips, Harry’s sweet taste, Harry, Harry, _Harry_. He is _kissing Harry._

 

It’s as if his bloodstream is filled with the same bubbling champagne they split a few weeks ago when Louis’ book was named a top seller in England. It makes his skin prickle and waves of excitement flow from his fingertips to his toes. He hopes Harry feels the same. Not that he would really care at this point.

 

Tongues work their way into the equation at the same time they shift position. Harry lays his legs flat across the table and Louis climbs on top of him, straddling Harry’s waist with his strong arms draped over Harry’s shoulders. 

 

After a few minutes of the continuous make out session, they finally pull apart. Harry is the first to duck out but Louis chases his lips as far as his neck will allow until cold air hits his face again. Harry’s hands have been dropped and placed behind him so that he can lean back at a slight angle enough to look at Louis comfortably.

 

“You better write sonnets about that kiss,” Harry breaks the silence with a grin. 

 

Louis can’t help but let out a bark of laughter and duck his head. He looks up at Harry like a bashful child. “Only as long as you paint the scene in a variety of ways. I want abstract, traditional, freestyle, whatever the hell else there is. All of them. And I want to hang every work around the flat so that I can never forget this moment.”

 

“Why don’t we start with taking a picture of the painting on your back and go from there?” Harry laughs. His cheeks are flushed and lips are bright pink, hair falling in a mess around his soft face.

 

“Sounds like a plan,” Louis agrees. He presses a chaste peck on Harry’s nose making the younger boy scrunch his face up. “So long as I can call you my boyfriend now.”

 

“Without even going on a date first? You’re an easy catch.” Louis slaps him on the shoulder.

 

“You’re a dick. I’m a great catch.”

 

All Harry does is smile at him with a playful glint in his dazzling eyes. “Never said you weren’t, sunshine.”

 

*•*•*

 

_your mouth tastes like cherries and whisky and your smile reflects my light like the moon does the sun. the color of your eyes matches the type of leave inked onto your hips and i thank each star that all of your beauty is now mine._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! please leave kudos and comments :)


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